When Strange Gods Call

By Pam Chun

Ka Palapala Po`okela Award Winner 2005 for Excellence in “Aloha from beyond Hawai`i”
--Hawaii Book Publishers Association

“Pam Chun writes lovingly of Hawai`i—a land of beauty and tradition, where the scent of plumeria fills each page and a love once lost can be found again.”
--Gail Tsukiyama, author of "Samurai’s Garden," "Women of the Silk," and "Night of Many Dreams"

“Good family epic enlivened with a nice locale and a stiff dose of history.”
--Kirkus Reviews

“Chun vividly evokes the lush, sensual land and effectively dramatizes the conflict between old traditions and fast-paced modernity.”
--Booklist Reviews

Twelve years ago, ambitious Miki Ai’Lee left her native Hawaii seeking adventure. Now thirty, Miki is a renowned and feted professor of art history in San Francisco. But when her grandmother’s illness draws her back to Hawaii, Miki realizes she has been gone too long. When she returns, she accidentally meets her first love, Alex, who bears scars that he is unwilling to explain.

Miki and Alex’s families have known each other for four generations. Four generations of animosity and death, corrupt politics, and international murder.

Alex's world has been the high-stakes world of art theft. Miki's is the high-society glamour of art collectors. But now her grandmother is ready to share their family’s darkest secret, if only Miki will listen.

When the old world of tradition and the new world of opportunity collide—forcing Miki to choose between the man she loves and the heritage that holds her—she finds that the whispers of tradition are once again at odds with her own desires.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pam Chun
• Release date: May 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458103789

Pam Chun

Best-selling author Pam Chun's award-winning first novel, THE MONEY DRAGON, was named one of 2002's Best Books of Hawaii. In 2003, her novel received a Ka Palapala Po'okela Award for Excellence in Literature. Pam Chun has been featured on National Public Radio, at the Smithsonian in Washington D.C., at the National Archives and Records Administration's Conference on Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders, and in the documentary,HAWAII'S CHINATOWN, which premiered on Hawaii PBS. Pam has been a speaker at Alameda's first Literary Festival for readers, San Francisco's first Litquake, the San Francisco Writer's Conference, the Bamboo Ridge Writer's Workshop, and many universities. Multi-page interviews of Pam and her publications appear in The San Francisco Chronicle, The Honolulu Advertiser, The Honolulu Star-Bulletin, the Seattle International Examiner, the South China News (China) and Alameda Magazine. Reviews of her novels have appeared in national publications and internationally. AOLTravel has published her travel articles online. THE MONEY DRAGON, Pam's first novel, topped the best seller upon its hardback and paperback release. In 2003, her novel received a Kapalapala Po`okela Award for excellence in literature from the Hawaii Book Publisher's Association. An excerpt from THE MONEY DRAGON is included in the anthology Honolulu Stories (2006). Pam Chun's second novel, WHEN STRANGE GODS CALL, which expanded on one of the scandals of her infamous family, focused on the contemporary clash of cultures in Hawaii and received the 2005 Ka Palapala Po`okela Award for excellence in literature. THE SEAGULL'S GARDENER is a memoir of distance caregiving for her father from 3,000 miles away. Her latest novel is THE PERFECT TEA THIEF. Pam is a storyteller at the Asian Art Museum of San Francisco. She was honored as one of 2004's four Outstanding Overseas Chinese by the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association. She served as fiction judge for the 2007 and 2008 Kiriyama Prize for Pacific Rim Literature Pam lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, Transpac sailor Fred J. Joyce III. She has one son, a U.S. diplomat stationed overseas with his family.

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Praise for When Strange Gods Call

2005 Ka Palapala Po`okela Award Winner

"Pam Chun writes lovingly of Hawai`i—a land of beauty and tradition, where the scent of plumeria fills each page and a love once lost can be found again."

--Gail Tsukiyama, author of Women of the Silk, The Samurai’s Garden, Night of Many Dreams, The Language of Threads, and Dreaming Water

"Vividly evokes the lush, sensual land and effectively dramatizes the conflict between old traditions and fast-pasted modernity."

-- Booklist

"Good family epic enlivened wtih a nice locale and a stiff dose of history."

--Kirkus Reviews

"Enjoy a curl-up-in-bed-with-a-good-book read."

--Francesca De Grandis, author of The Modern Goddess’ Guide to Life

"Chun makes the reader experience every exotic aspect of Hawai`i in this beautifully told love story."

--Louise B. Snead, Publisher and Editor, Affaire de Coeur: Reviews and Previews for the romantic Reader and Writer

"A haunted Hawaii, lush with passions of the past, culture clash, stormy spirits...The writing is lyrical, like a Hawaiian melody, the sense of place makes me ache for the islands, and the mystical love story is reminiscent of Romeo and Juliet, blessed by the gods."

-- Penny Warner, author of Silence is Golden

"One is deluged with the fragrance of Hawaiian flowers and the tantalizing smells from the luau in this riveting love story, a timeless classic of opposing families, between East and West."

--Terese Tse Bartholomew, international author and curator of Himalayan Art and Chinese Decorative Arts, Asian Art Museum of San Francisco

"Ms. Chun has written a book that not only will tear at your heartstrings, but she delivers the kind picturesque description of Hawaii that will have you wanting to book a flight. I could literally taste the air, smell the flowers, see the ocean blue. What a delicious and warm book."

--A Reader

When Strange

Gods Call

by Pam Chun

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2004, 2011 Pam Chun

Cover by Laura Shinn

Cover photo by Pam Chun

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from Pam Chun.

The characters and events portrayed in When Strange Gods call are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

~*~

Dedicated to my father, Kwai Wood Chun

~*~

Author’s Note

When I was a child in Hawai`i, whenever our family gathered, the evening would end with stories. My grandmother, aunts, uncles, and parents remembered the Territorial Days when life was simpler— planting taro in terraced rows, running barefoot, and climbing trees after school. But when the moon mounted the warm dark nights, my cousins and I craved the ghost stories. In those days, gods and goddesses, ghosts and spirits were very much alive.

After a sunset swim and barbecue on the beach, all of us gathered around the glowing hibachi coals, knee to knee in the darkness. Did we know that a little boy had drowned right here at this beach, an uncle would ask with a glint in his eye. We shivered when we heard the tale of how his seaweed-dripping ghost haunted the sea waiting for an unsuspecting victim.

On the way home, my father would point out darkened houses, supposedly haunted, and trees where ghosts could be seen luring drivers. When he turned onto our street we were instantly silent when we passed three old cemeteries and four temples and churches—a richly fertile haunt for spirits.

Early one morning, my mother’s cousin awakened us with her frantic pounding on our front door. On her way to work, traffic had slowed to a crawl. A man and woman, drenched in blood, beckoned all the drivers from the wall at Kipapa Gulch, a treacherous road. They had died in a car crash the night before at that very spot. The couple’s spirits now lured the morning commuters to take their place.

While the Chinese and Hawaiian ghost stories—of which our family had an endless supply—shaped our imaginations, we were trying to be as American as the people we saw on television and in the movies. Our school curriculum covered American history, not Hawaiian history. Our teachers emphasized speaking good English, not the pidgin we used to communicate with our friends and neighbors who spoke dozens of languages. But we always remembered that spirits inhabit our trees, rocks, mountains, and wind. Ghosts return to homes and roadsides. Strange gods and goddesses take human form to confound us.

Hawai`i is a mix of many cultures and languages from ethnically diverse lands of the Pacific. Perhaps it is Hawai`i’s tumultuous history—a Hawaiian kingdom overthrown by American businessmen, ruled by a provisional government and a republic, annexation, and statehood—that allows us to be comfortable with both the mystical world of Hawai`i and the logical Western world of America. It has taught us that what matters most are the people and our ability to get along and adapt.

According to the 2000 U.S. Census, there are more Hawaiians living on the U.S. mainland than in Hawai`i. Even though we keiki o ka `aina—the children of Hawaii—have left the Islands for political, economic, or educational reasons, we have taken the tales and myths and legends of Hawai`i with us.

So now when the wind rustles the trees, we teach our children to hear its stories. We teach the little ones the rituals and how to observe the festivals based upon ancient ways. They hear chilling ghost stories from our childhood steeped in the legends of many. So when they inhale the humid air and hear the haunting voices of their families they will know that the spirits of all these ancestors belong to them.

When Strange Gods Call evokes these ghosts and spirits of Hawai`i. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

The gods, goddesses, ghosts, and spirits, however, are real.

~*~

Chapter 1 - The Lure of Ghosts and Gods

Hawai`i, 1958

Millions of stars surrounded the cliff like a river of iridescent sand across the skies and spilled down to the sea hundreds of feet below. Alex coasted to the edge, to where we could hear the surf pound against the lava rocks beneath us.

I turned to study his face, to see how he had changed. He had traveled six thousand miles away and lived where seasons changed from icy snow to dripping heat. He returned from his first year of college taller, broader in the shoulders, with an East Coast polish to his speech. Since I had never left the Islands, I wanted to know what he had seen, what he had felt.

Alex gripped the steering wheel of his ’47 wood-paneled Olds and stared into the darkness as if memorizing the position and brilliance of each star. Hawai`i is a galaxy apart, a whole different world, he said with his old charm and confidence. This old Woody was Alex’s pride, one of the things he missed the most while he was away. Its wood sides, stripped by the sea air, worn to a patina by the sun, were smooth to the touch. Even its interior scent, of wood and worn leather, reminded us of the days we had spent as salty-haired teens.

The wind whistled in through the side windows that had never closed properly after we pried them open. It became our private joke, a reminder of our first date when he locked the keys in the car fifteen minutes before my ten o’clock curfew. Frantic, we had jimmied the lock with a coat hanger. Alex pronounced our success a good omen, despite our families’ legendary rivalry. But his year away had been a year of silence.

Alex leaned forward and pulled me close. Let me teach you what I learned on the East Coast, he said. His voice was throaty and his hands were smooth, hot, and silky against my throat when he kissed me. His shirt, a Hawaiian print that smelled like a sunny afternoon under salty skies, was soft against my bare arms.

I was breathless. I no longer heard the sea or the wind. The air was sweet with ocean spray and resonant with the boom of the waves

But when his hands slid up my bare legs, my fists were faster. His head flew back and splashed against the window with a resounding Thwack!

Miki, he yelped. He clutched the left side of his face and winced.

My fist and open palm were poised in front of me in the Crane position, ready to strike again. The Alex I knew was a gentleman; we had gone no further than passionate kisses in high school. He knew I was a fighter, the result of growing up in a clan of brawny male cousins. I took a deep breath, ready to bolt. Since we were students, I could forgive him for not calling. It was expensive—five dollars a minute. But to not write for a year, to not even call when he got back a month ago, then to drive straight to this lookout on our first date…the heat of his fingers burned my thighs.

Alex’s lips twisted in a scowl. He huffed angrily. He started up the car and screeched into reverse. This is 1958, Miki Ai’Lee. Girls on the East Coast know how to have fun. Stay an island peasant the rest of your life.

I swore at him in Chinese, Japanese, Hawaiian, and everything else I knew.

His cheek showed no evidence of my bruising punch, yet. But I had hurt something greater than his handsome face.

His eyes turned red as fire bolts when he floored the accelerator. Seconds later, his precious Olds Woody flew off the cliff and exploded into a sparkling shower of confetti that joined the millions of stars stretching from the sky to the sea. Alex opened his arms and shot across the Pacific like a meteor.

Alex, I screamed. I tumbled end over end through the dark sky, hands outstretched. I felt the air suck from my lungs as he disappeared over the horizon. I rocketed through the darkness of night. Then I grabbed a moonbeam and slid back to earth in a shower of silver tears.

~*~

San Francisco, 1970

It was dawn. The fog had crept in overnight and smothered the hills of San Francisco while the winds off the bay howled like banshees. When I woke, I yearned to breathe the misty clouds that wrapped the peaks of Nu`uanu where at night, when the wind howled through the tree tunnels of the Old Pali Road, ghosts shapes loomed in the darkness with outstretched hands.

My grandmother said that dreams were doorways to yesterday and tomorrow, that yesterdays became tomorrows, that dreams never lied. Alex Demming was my yesterday, a door slammed shut and bolted a dozen years ago, a friendship doomed a hundred years before when a Demming and an Ai’Lee ignited a saga of mysterious deaths and deceit.

I had never dreamt of Alex before. It had been twelve years since I slugged him, twelve years since he stormed out of my life. Alex, tall and gangly, his brown hair rebelliously tousled, would have returned after college to run the Demming ranch on Kaua`i.

Twelve years ago I was a skinny eighteen year-old with creamy skin that refused to tan. In those carefree days, my hair fell to my waist like an ebony waterfall or streamed behind me when I ran in the wind.

Now I am a professor of art history, thirty and unmarried. I wear sleek suits and carry a briefcase. While I was built a career in San Francisco, Hawai`i became the nation’s fiftieth state, a magnet for federal and international investments in tourism and business. Alex’s family—the Demmings—tracks four generations upon the land that had once belonged to the Ai’Lees and is one of Hawai`i’s most powerful landowners.

But in my dreams, I heard the voice of ancient legends call my name from across the Pacific. Miki Ai’Lee! Miki Ai’Lee! Their chants reminded me of ritual incense spiraling in neighborhood temples and coconut fronds rustling on a warm Hawaiian breeze.

Goosebumps prickled up my back and down my arms. Chicken skin, Hawaiians called it, when the hair on your neck tinges and shivers run up your spine. Chicken skin. Someone, somewhere, was holding me in his thoughts, remembering, pondering, reaching for me.

I dug in the darkness for the phone.

My father, Kam Ai’Lee, was already up, slicing a Portuguese sausage for his breakfast omelet. He didn’t sound surprised that I had called before dawn. Hawaiians rise as soon as the night rains have stopped, before the morning has steamed the dew off the grass. Over the transpacific phone lines he sounded like he was sitting on the ocean floor, his words bubbling up one by one. He tried so hard to avoid the exorbitant per-minute charges that he usually hung up after three terse minutes.

Miki! Good thing you called. Your grandmother fell and hit her head. Another dizzy spell. I found her lying on the kitchen floor yesterday. No broken bones but she has a huge lump on the back of her head. Dr. Lee is worried, considering she’s ninety-one and with all those stairs! But she insists on living alone. He held his voice calm and steady, but I heard tears in his eyes. I imagined him standing barefoot on the green-flecked linoleum in the kitchen, the phone in his right hand, a dishrag in his left. He was a head taller than I was, with sinewy muscles and not an ounce of fat. At seventy, he had thick salt-and-pepper hair, angular cheekbones, and sharp, bright eyes. Since it was summer, he would be wearing shorts and a collared polo shirt softened by many washes.

I sat up and turned on a light. My grandmother was my kindred spirit, my surrogate mother. She hid her frailties with stubborn independence, a trait we shared. I’m coming home, Dad, I said quickly. I grappled for a pen and paper and started clearing my calendar. I had three months before my university students returned for the fall. I could be on a plane tomorrow.

He was quiet, taken aback by my sudden offer, and obviously happy. Thanks, Miki. You know how independent your grandmother is. She says she’ll die in her own house when she’s ready. But you’re her favorite and she’ll listen to you.

I imagined my father replacing the receiver, thin worry lines creasing his handsome forehead. He’d turn back to the wooden cutting board at the sink and pick up his knife, all the while, all the while counting the minutes until I returned.

~*~

When I first left Hawai`i for San Francisco, I flew out of the old Honolulu Airport, the backdrop to the most dramatic farewells. One could look across the vast open-air terminal, which was one massive building, and see everyone who was arriving and departing the island of O`ahu. Everyone was engulfed in a scented sea of orchid, pikake, tuberose, and plumeria blossoms. No one left without friends and family descending upon them with armloads of flower leis and loud kisses. Loved ones walked across the tarmac loaded with leis up to their noses. At the top of the stairs, they turned, threw kisses, then waved through the little windows at their seats until the plane taxied out onto the runway. No one left the gate until the airplane lifted off and disappeared over the Pacific. Upon arrival, the pageantry of flowers and hugs and kisses was loudly repeated.

Now I returned to a new Honolulu International Airport which featured sleek jetways and air-conditioned gates far from the main terminal. The tourists jumped on the wiki-wiki bus at the gates but the locals walked all the way to baggage claim to savor the warm humid air.

I joyfully inhaled the scent of home: flower-sweet, ocean-salty, fresh with the perfume of lush tropical forests. The long-sleeved silk blouse and slacks that barely kept me warm in San Francisco fluttered softly against my skin in the breeze. I felt the humidity slow me down to Hawai`i’s pace until I, too, ambled like the locals. Above me, the coconut trees swayed against the shockingly blue sky. How I had missed the seductive rustle of fronds in the tradewinds.

At last, my white Samsonite, a high school graduation gift from my parents, tumbled out on the baggage carousel followed by a case of roast ducks from San Francisco Chinatown, for one never visits family without bearing gifts.

A yellow Chevy convertible rumbled to the curb the minute I left the air-conditioned terminal. My cousin Reginald, in a tropical-weight suit, leapt out of his car with three plumeria leis swinging in his right hand. He gave them to me one by one, with a kiss. Howzit, Miki! I had to go to Ewa this morning, so I told your father I’d pick you up on my way into town. You’ve been gone too long. I haven’t seen you since your mother’s funeral eight years ago. Mazie and the girls made these leis for you last night. You look the same, except so pale. No sun in San Francisco? He teased with laughter in his thick-lashed, large brown eyes and the whitest welcoming smile.

The sweet yellow petals against my cheeks softened the memories of my last visit home, traumatic and depressing. I tossed my suitcase in the back seat and got in. I don’t get to go surfing every day, I retorted saucily, to keep up my beach-boy tan and physique like you.

He slid back in the car with muscular ease. Those days are gone, he laughed heartily. I’m a working man now. Yes, still in juvenile probation with the courts. He nodded, noting my appraising glance. Yes, turning white, too! His short thick hair had sun-bleached to brown with distinguished white streaks. He pulled out and headed towards Honolulu.

Reginald nodded at my taped cardboard carton he had shoved into the back seat. Looks like you brought a case of roast ducks for me. He smacked his lips.

Filch them, I warned, and I’ll send the Ai’Lee ladies after you.

Fiery tempered as always. Here’s another reason I came to get you. He handed me the local papers. Read them before you get home. Each of Honolulu’s two major newspapers covered local news with their own political slant.

LOCAL POLITICS? screamed the bold headlines of the first. In the photo below, the lean bodies of two athletic men in team jerseys and white knickers were twisted together in combat. Blood spurted from the nose of one onto the shirt of a handsome dark-haired combatant who strongly resembled my brother. I quickly read the caption.

Braxton in a fight? Reginald, I can’t believe this, I yelled as he accelerated onto the freeway, leaving the Japanese rice-rockets in the dust. My brother was so conservative he had worn only white-collared shirts to school. He buttered up his teachers with eager answers and toothy smiles and was always surrounded by a bevy of friends, both male and female. He had never been in a fight. In fact, no one ever got angry with him, except me.

Keep reading. Reginald changed lanes to avoid an elderly Chinese matron cruising forty miles per hour on the Nimitz and kept his eyes on the road.

Ai’Lee vs. Demming Ties Governor’s Memorial Day Game headed the next paper with a similar color photo above the fold, except Braxton and Demming were tussling on the ground surrounded by their teams in a rousing fist-fight. Demming looked like a solidly built man, about my brother’s age, blond, square shouldered, with huge hands and feet. My brother was six feet tall, a rangy muscular man, well-proportioned and athletic from years of baseball and basketball.

I turned to Reginald, my face cold and drained. How could this be? You know how Braxton’s the conciliator in any argument. He faints at the sight of blood.

He glanced at my shocked expression. It was an invitation-only picnic given by the Governor. Payback time for his favorites and their families at the home of one of his biggest financial supporters. There’s always a friendly baseball game at these outings. Of course, the factions hand-pick their teams at secret practices so it becomes very political, very contentious, he explained. "Here’s the way I heard it. In the bottom of the ninth, bases were loaded 3-0 for the Demming team. Your brother at bat. Braxton’s hit soared past the bleachers. Kubo, Blake, and Kealoha ran home. Braxton sprinted for the plate. Braxton claims catcher Chris Demming punched him in the solar plexus when he slid home. Demming claims his eye was on the ball from outfielder Benny Manuel. Everyone ran to the field when Braxton and